


The Love Tour

by theroverinadressinggown



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Humor, Jealous Katsuki Yuuri, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-09-08 14:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8848465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroverinadressinggown/pseuds/theroverinadressinggown
Summary: The Grand Prix is an international boy band famed for intense choreography and insane talent. After five years with them, their star Victor Nikiforov intends to leave. The band’s insiders, from Yuri Pilsetsky to Otabek Altin, fight to grab Victor’s vacated throne. But Victor knows who he wants on that seat. Yuuri Katsuki, backup dancer, will just have to live with it.





	1. Prologue

“Victor Nikiforov is leaving the Grand Prix.”  
  
The announcement stunned the world. The undisputed king of boy band music, leaving the Grand Prix as the world chants the names of six members? _Victor Nikiforov! Yuri Pilsetsky! Phichit Chulanont! Christophe Giacometti! Otabek Altin! Seung Gil Lee!_  
  
“He wants to find his inspiration again, in more serious music. A close source says that Victor feels suffocated by the choreos that he creates, as the rest of the Grand Prix have a hard time keeping up―”  
  
Yuuri Katsuki, Grand Prix backup dancer, leaned forward into his stretch. “I don’t believe it.”  
  
“Hmmm?” His friend Phichit turned off the news on Buzzfeed’s app. Mirrors gleamed around the two boys, filling the practice room with copies.  
  
“That Nikiforov is leaving because you guys aren’t good enough.”  
  
“Well, yeah, it’s not us,” Phichit beamed and re-angled the selfie camera. _Click!_ “We’re so amazing! And that includes you too, Yuuri!”  
  
Phichit’s fingers flew over the keyboard: _Lazy day with Grand Prix’s_ Ambition _tour over!! But still practicing so don’t blow a gasket Manager Yakov~ @dontleaveVictor @GrandPrixNeedsSix_  
  
Yuuri flushed. “No, I mean―”  
  
“C’mon, Yuuri, let’s get practicing!” Pitchit set the phone back on the camera stand, making sure it was secure and on. “If Victor’s leaving, I need to get my part down before I can make a bid for his.”  
  
“Give me a second.” Yuuri stood and walked to the center of the practice room. He breathed in. Let his shoulders loosen from their usual nervous position near his ears.  
  
“Music, on,” Pitchit whispered.  
  
The first strains over the room’s speakers. The intro was long and drawn out for this routine. The staccato beat pounded in Yuuri’s heart. It was enough. Yuuri bowed his head. Straightened. Victor’s rich voice blended with the drums and percussions. Yuuri crooned the same words: “ _I’m not nice enough for you, but you don’t see―oh, oh, you don’t see―that you can’t be the one for me~_ ”  
  
His right arm, crooked, drifted down over his head. Firm and steady, Yuuri thought. He leapt. He fell into spins and turns, leg sweeping out. Head tossed back.  
  
“Next quad!” Pitchit yelled.  
  
Yuuri obeyed, letting the music wash over him. “ _Forget the mothers, forget the fathers, you say you want me, you want me~_ ”  
  
Felt the beat―he was king of the mountain for this song. He was Ambition, pure and ruthless.  
  
Pitchit grunted to his left, twisting a tumble. “And now, the flip!”  
  
Yuuri wasn’t listening, even as his body obeyed. This routine―he knew it better than his own. No, this was his routine now. Every flowing stroke of his arm, every sweep of the leg―they were stamps on this choreo, the choreo Victor was giving up. Each quad transitioned to the next. The music urged Yuuri on.  
  
“ _So you see, you’re not the one for me~_ ”  
  
“And done!” Pitchit cried. It was over.  
  
Yuuri’s feet hit the floor. His chest heaved. For one breathless moment, he was Victor Nikiforov, demanding applause and taking it. “That’s it for the day?”  
  
“Yep! Thanks for doing Victor’s piece,” Pitchit said. “I should be better at remembering my directions, but honestly I tend to use Victor as a landmark.”  
  
“No, I should thank you,” Yuuri huffed. “I got to practice with one of the Grand Prix members, who else of ‘the peasants’ can say that?”  
  
“You’re one of us, Yuuri, no matter what the Punk says.”  
  
Yuuri didn’t reply. Pitchit’s reassurance was blatantly false. Yuuri didn’t think any of the other Grand Prix members knew his name, let alone that he existed.  
  
Pitchit began dismantling the tripod stand. “I didn’t want to ask Victor now that he’s avoiding all of us, so was there anything you noticed that I should change?”  
  
“You’re very solid, except for the slip in the middle there,” Yuuri said. He found the lock mechanism on the tripod base and the legs slid smoothly against each other. “You didn’t need anything from me.”  
  
“Eh, better to have this footage to review than not.”  
  
“Well, this is one thing―” Yuuri’s courage faltered. Who was he to tell Pitchit what he should or shouldn’t do? Pitchit was the successful one. Pitchit was one of the Six.  
  
“What?”  
  
Yuuri fidgeted. “You stepped on-beat during the second quad. The point is to step off-beat, to declare that you’re too good to be like the rest. That’s what this story of ambition is about.”  
  
“Wow, the tour’s over and no one caught that.”  
  
“Or maybe I’m wrong. Only Nikiforov could tell you.” Yuuri turned away from Pitchit’s admiring gaze. He didn’t deserve it. When he could actually do his job and dance with the backup crowd, then he deserved some measure of admiration.  
  
“Still, that was some good work,” Pitchit grinned. “You wanna grab some pork cutlet bowls?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
Both dancers forgot Pitchit’s favorite app running in the background―the one that automatically uploaded photos and videos in the general folder to the world wide web.


	2. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor ruminates, in metaphors and convoluted sentences, as that's the only way he knows to think. That, and whining like a child.

Victor slumped in his seat and regarded the laptop screen thoughtfully. Leaving the Grand Prix was one of the hardest decisions of his life, easily the hardest of his career, but he felt in his bones that he needed to take the step away from Yakov, from the familiar. If it brought him Yuri’s disdain, so be it. He had bigger fish to fry. Bigger fish, like the black-haired dancer leaping behind Pitchit. That Pitchit was gunning for the lead spot came as no great surprise: those with their finger on the pulse knew that in some way everyone Victor was leaving in the Prix was aiming for the coveted spot at the top. Like Yuri, Victor thought, they were all thinking like Yuri, which was why it wouldn’t work. Being at the top didn’t mean being the best, it meant making the audience think they were the best. The higher the ratings, the more Victor wondered why they found him so irresistible. It was a constant effort to top his last performance, to get higher off the dancing and singing and the admiration...and knowing all the while that the clock was ticking on how much more he could do.   
  
Being the lead of the Grand Prix, Victor had learned, meant subverting oneself. Yuri was too proud for that. Every one of the others were. They all knew their worth, their draw, so they would fall. Victor, and the nameless phenomenon that possessed Grand Prix fans, needed a chameleon.   
  
As he watched the dancer behind Pitchit bob and weave, every line in his body a musical note, Victor smiled. That was what needed to appear onstage, that leashed power, the complete understanding of the physicality of the performance. The knowledge that the next song would be utterly different, but for now, this was the only thing that mattered. Victor knew that Pitchit was thinking about the adoration, in some way demanding to be looked at. To be known during this firefly life. The new guy was asking for it, with the whisper like smoke that crooned, “My dancing is and always will be. While you age in mind and body, I am this song.”   
  
Worship, that was it. Victor burned to worship this man for being music incarnate. Why didn’t anyone see? The Prix did need six.  
  
_“So you see, you’re not the one for me~”_  
  
The music swelled to a stop, and Victor pressed replay. He simply had to have that man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short *cries*. I need something to get back into the groove of this story. Let me know what you think! What should happen next?


	3. Chapter 3

At an airport food court, Yuuri nibbled on his straw before pushing his drink away. The pork cutlet bowl tasted like ash in his mouth, because it wasn’t his mother’s, and because he hadn’t done anything to deserve it.  
  
“Pitchit,” he said slowly. “Would you mind sending me that video?”  
  
“Huh?” Pitchit overturned his phone and pressed his thumb against the home button. “Talk to me, Yuuri. I’m sending you it now.”  
  
Yuuri read in his friend’s eyes an earnest confusion. Yuuri rarely asked for the videos where he took on the parts of any of the Grand Prix members, not even the ones where Pitchit needed him to be Victor Nikiforov. It hurt too much, and in the wrong places.  
  
“No, it can wait.” Yuuri took a breath, pressing Pitchit’s phone down again. It took a year to train Pitchit to flip his phone over during meals, and Yuuri wasn’t about to let him break the habit now. Pitchit subsided with a pout. “The truth is, I’m going to be leaving the Grand Prix backup team.”  
  
Pitchit’s fork slid out of his gaping mouth. “What? You’re easily the best backup dancer we’ve got! They even had you do that bendy thing with Victor because the rest of the Prix couldn’t do it!”  
  
Yuuri flushed. ‘That bendy thing with Victor’ was probably the most shameless stylized fucking Yuuri had ever done. For their ‘Chase’ video, Nikiforov was adamant that the song’s nameless lover had to bend backwards like spines were unnecessary to human evolution, and then grind against Nikiforov for the chorus. Pilsetsky refused to use his flexibility in that manner, which most everyone expected―he really only posed like that with Altin, because the higher-ups liked the dichotomy of their aesthetics (Yuuri saw it too: light paired with dark, youth juxtaposed with age, change against immovability). Somehow Victor nixed everyone else in the Grand Prix for “not having the right feel.” Pilsetsky retorted that it was all cock, why did it matter, but Nikiforov was undeterred. Yuuri supposed that being at the top meant being able to make demands like forcing every backup dancer on call to twist into a pretzel and thrust. Heavens above, Yuuri idolized and disliked the silver-haired star in equal measure.   
  
“Yuuri,” Pitchit murmured. “Why did they say you had to leave?”  
  
“It was mostly me,” Yuuri blurted out. “I wanted to. They said I wasn’t syncing up with the rest of the team. I could feel it too.”   
  
“But―are you so unhappy practicing with us?”   
  
Yuuri wanted to say Pitchit was the only one who took selfies with the backup dancers, that Yuuri felt lonely in the sea of his colleagues, that he was going nowhere. In the end, he only said, “I love practicing with you, Pitchit. But I was thinking about switching careers. Becoming a teacher. Still dancing, but...more casual.”   
  
“I won’t stop you from making a choice,” Pitchit said. “But, Yuuri, don’t hand in your resignation letter yet.”  
  
“I already did,” Yuuri said.  
  
“When?”  
  
“Last week. All it needs is Yakov’s signature. They tell me that he’s slow working through the pile, but it should go through by tomorrow.”  
  
“So this flight?” Pitchit nodded at the bustling terminal in front of them.  
  
“Yes. I’m not coming back.” Yuuri tried to smile. Did, when he realized that Pitchit of the Grand Prix really shouldn’t be sending him off. If the smile was a touch tear-stained around the edges, Pitchit didn’t say anything. Pitchit would return from Thailand in a few days, but Yuuri couldn’t bear to tell him any earlier that Japan was his home now.   
  
At last, Pitchit rose and hugged Yuuri tightly. “This isn’t the end. I’ll be in touch every second.”  
  
“You can try,” Yuuri laughed. “My phone’s already on airplane mode.”  
  
Pitchit playfully fell backwards in shock, leading Yuuri to jump up and dip his friend into a halfway-comfortable hold. His metal seat clattered to the floor behind Yuuri, and he blessed his reflexes.   
  
“Sheesh, what are you going to do when there’s no one to assist with your trust falls! A cracked skull isn’t going to purchase me a return flight!” Pitchit was warm and tanned against Yuuri’s body, a comfortable weight cradled against his hands. God, he was going to miss the camaraderie of being on tour and joining Pitchit onstage and fighting for the disappearance of any candids.   
  
“Die, of course,” Pitchit moaned. “No one in the Grand Prix bothers catching me anymore.”  
  
Yuuri grinned, helping Pitchit up. “Bye for now, then.”  
  
He grabbed his carryon and headed quickly for the gate, knowing that if he stuck around any longer, he was in danger of not leaving at all.   
  
Yuuri slept fitfully on the phone ride, memories flitting through his head like wing-heavy moths.   
  
He was fifteen again, sluggishly performing after Vicchan’s death, in front of an unimpressed panel of judges. The first real shot he had at stardom, and he threw it to the ground because he felt like choking on his heart.   
  
“Clear ballet experience. Solid fundamentals,” Lilia Baranovskaya said brusquely. From her, that was a glowing review. “But I don’t like his character. Like a limp rag.”  
  
“Little more energy, boy,” Yakov Feltsman barked. And Yuuri tried, he really did. But his audition piece was sweet and light, pure when Yuuri felt hollowed out. He should have changed it, choreographed something new before he showed up, but even the thought of the work─because right now dancing felt like work─made his face turn slightly green.  
  
“Stop it,” Nikiforov’s voice rang out. “His energy’s fine. Don’t you feel it? Thrumming under the surface. The story’s different from what he displayed on the audition tape. This time, it’s about not being content with the pleasantness. Like the Devil poking at the peace of Heaven.”  
  
Feltsman frowned. “Did you plan that, boy?”  
  
Yuuri knew that for whatever reason, Nikiforov had just given him an out. Practicality muttered that he should take it, and hope that Nikiforov’s blessing meant an edge in the final cut. But he also knew that piggybacking on the excuse and being rejected would push him that much further down the spiral he was on. Better to grab rejection on his own terms. “No, Mr. Feltsman.”  
  
Baranovskaya almost smiled. “You have to admire his moxie.”  
  
“We’re done here,” Yakov grunted. “Have the next guy come in.”  
  
His lackey obeyed with a loud “Yuri Pilsetsky!”  
  
Yuuri collected his water bottle. Sweat shimmering under the fluorescent lights, he morosely rubbed at his temple and headed for the exit. Thank God this day was finally over. He could return to his empty hotel room and wait for his flight out of Moscow. A sharp pain lanced through his side, and Yuuri stumbled in surprise. Clutching the site of a future bruise, Yuuri let out a hiss.  
  
“Wimp,” Pilsetsky muttered. He flounced into the audition room.  
  
Past the pain, Yuuri could admire Pilsetsky’s arrogant grace. Tears blurred his vision: Yuuri had always cried easily, but this entire week was an ache he couldn’t shake.   
  
Someone crouched in front of him, holding out a water bottle. “Here, you dropped this.”  
  
Yuuri grabbed the offering and chugged, blinking the water in his eyes away.   
  
“I apologize for Yuri,” the stranger said, poetry in his voice, and so Yuuri wasn’t surprised to tilt his chin down and see Nikiforov. Yakov’s pet performer was really too talented for Yuuri’s own peace of mind: sing, dance, choreograph, Nikiforov could do it all. “But you really do have to agree with his assessment.”  
  
Yuuri firmed his shoulders, refusing to wilt under Nikiforov’s stare. “I know, Nikiforov, I didn’t make the cut.”  
  
“You know what killed your audition? You couldn’t take criticism. You couldn’t let someone else be more right.”  
  
Yuuri bit his lip and refused to say anything else, twisting the bottle cap under his fingers. Nikiforov didn’t know anything. The other boy fell silent as well. For a moment, Yuuri thought he could make it back to Japan and live a normal life. Then, awkwardly, Nikiforov asked, “Do you want an autograph? As a souvenir.”   
  
And with those words, Nikiforov shattered any possibility that Yuuri wouldn’t keep dancing, higher, better, more. Yuuri vowed that one day, he would have the man begging for his signature on a contract, him and Yakov both. One day.  
  
Yuuri wanted desperately to empty half a liter of water on Nikiforov’s head. But because Yuuri wasn’t the diva that Yakov and everyone else wanted, Yuuri only capped the bottle.   
  
“Goodbye, Nikiforov,” Yuuri said quietly, turning and stalking out, plastic crumpling in his fist. He could still feel his shoulderblades itching with Nikiforov’s judgment.   
  
A child kicked the back of Yuuri’s plane seat. Thus, reality broke into his dream, and Yuuri shuddered under the realization that he was only another could-been.   
  
Once, Nikiforov looked at him with something other than practiced blankness. Whenever Yuuri had the chance to practice with the full Grand Prix and all their assorted backup, Yuuri wondered if Nikiforov was surprised that Yuuri came back. If Victor remembered him, remembered saying that the only thing preventing him from stardom was an _ego_. What a joke. Half the Grand Prix had egos the size of the moon, and the other half used the Earth as a measuring stick. If only Yuuri could claim the same, when he battled depression and anxiety and the belief that he was a dime a dozen dancer.   
  
So haunted by envy, Yuuri flew back to Japan, phone comfortably in the carry-on. Meanwhile, the view count ticked up on Pitchit’s video and #Victorsdancer and #wehavesix trended worldwide. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to Jam_chan, without whom you wouldn't have an update in a day ^.^

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments much appreciated!


End file.
